


You Know You Want It

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables (Dallas 2014)
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Bathroom Sex, Implied Javert/Jean Valjean, M/M, Self-Hatred, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-27 21:28:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5064889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The nights when Javert ends up getting fucked by a stranger, he's definitely not thinking of Jean Valjean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Know You Want It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



The door of the stall didn't really close; it was still gently swinging back and forth in the flickering light, making creaking sounds every time Javert was pushed forward as he was fucked hard and relentlessly. The guy hadn't bothered to do more than unzip; Javert could feel the rough denim scrape against his ass with every thrust. He tried to grit his teeth and hold on to the wall of the stall, hating the filth that had been scrawled onto the divider and hating the guy's groans in time with the creaks of the door. The guy fucked him almost hard enough to make it worth it, and he hated that too, and the thoughts of–

 _Fuck._ The man had pushed inside again, hard and fast, and Javert's fingers scrabbled at the wall for purchase even as his balls tightened. There was a name scrawled beneath his cheek, a number beneath his mouth, and the guy pulled half out and pushed back in with his endless litany of “Yeah, yeah. Take it. Take it. Take it.” 

Javert desperately wished that he could just make him shut up, even as his stomach twisted in delighted agony at the careless, hard thrusts until his toes curled in his shoes and he panted against the dirty wall. He needed more of it. It was good, so good, and he knew that all he had to do was wait until it would be enough. It would be worth it then, the drive here and the humiliation of coming in and seeing the guy behind the bar look at him. It was that knowing look he hated. As if he knew that sooner or later, this was where Javert would end up.

But it was so much better than his own hand. If only it would last. If only he could have it fucked out of him, the need that didn't end, the sleepless nights, the dreams that he'd never asked for.

Javert groaned, desperate for it to end. Anything. Anything to make the need end. God, but it was good. Almost good enough. Almost–

The door swung open again with another creak even as Javert groaned deeply, his cheek smushed against a different obscenity now and God, what if it would leave marks on his skin. What if he'd have to go out through the bar like this, drive home like this. What if he'd be stopped by a traffic control...

He turned his face away from the wall, and the guy pushed in with another grunt. His groans were little more than a monotone chorus of “yeah, yeah, yeah” now and Javert was panting desperately because it was almost enough, _almost_ , just a little more now, just a little–

There was a guy watching from outside their stall. Fuck! When had he come in?

Javert hadn't heard the door open, but there he was, and he just _stared_ even as Javert clenched his fingers against the wall and groaned again at the harsh thrust. God! 

He wanted to reach out and pull the door closed, but it didn't close, he already knew that. He thought of what the man had to see: his face pressed against the dirty wall, his trousers around his knees, moaning while he got fucked in a restroom by some stranger–

Javert clenched his fingers and moaned again. God, the guy was still watching, and wasn't that sick, that was sick, that was – that was almost as sick as getting fucked by a stranger with another watching. 

Outraged, helpless, Javert groaned again as the man smiled and let his hand drift to his zipper, slowly rubbing his thumb against the bulge. Jesus, what a pervert, Javert thought with loathing even as the guy behind him continued to fuck him with enough force to almost make it worth it.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he was still grunting, the obscene porn soundtrack that Javert knew far too well, and the other was still watching. Javert gasped for air. Something was twisting in his stomach, pleasure licking up his spine with every rough shove and he hated the eyes on him so much that for a moment, he allowed himself to think _what if that wall were bars, what then, what if someone had made you bend over and grasp the bars and–_

“Yeah, you like that? You like that!” the guy behind him groaned. Furiously, Javert wished he'd just shut up. “You like being watched?” 

He groaned again, and Javert shuddered, his cheek still smushed against the dirty wall as the words made the fantasy fall away, leaving only a sickening emptiness in his stomach and filth on his cheek and his lips as the other watched. He was still rubbing his dick in his trousers while he stared at Javert.

“So eager. You want him too? Wanna let him watch while I fuck you?”

Javert forced himself to look away, but that was worse, because now he was panting at the filthy wall and he couldn't stop thinking about what the other guy saw. How he had to look. How he–

“Gets you hot, doesn't it? Yeah, you like getting watched. You like them lining up to fuck you.”

The man laughed. Javert bit back a grunt at the way the metal of his open zipper was chafing against his ass.

God, he'd have to go home with marks.

Again the guy pushed hard into him, and, yeah – that was good. His cock made Javert's toes curl, his breath escaping in a deep moan as his face was shoved into the wall again. He was reduced to pleading now, was begging God or anyone who would listen to end it here, to let him come and clean up and make it stop and _please let me come, please,_ “Please,” Javert groaned aloud. When he opened his eyes, the other had pulled his zipper down and was stroking his cock, smiling at him as he showed off his dick.

Fuck. It was disgusting. _He_ was disgusting, he thought even as heat twisted inside him. The guy was jerking himself off nice and slow. Javert groaned again, loathing hot in him even as he reached for his own cock. He just needed it to be over. It would be worth it, all of this, he told himself desperately, if only he could come now. And then he'd clean himself and leave and no one would know that it had happened... 

He was slammed into the wall again. The guy finished inside him with a grunt, and Javert stroked himself furiously. His nose was crushed against the wall and he didn't care even anymore; it was enough now, it had to be enough, it–

God, that was disgusting, Javert thought even as he came, shuddering in instinctive horror of the whole revolting mess that was now dripping down the wall. The guy's hands were still gripping him hard, and he was panting against his neck. For a moment Javert didn't even mind the whole sweaty filthiness of it all. It was almost enough, and he was no longer sick to his stomach with that image of how another could have forced him to bend forward and grip bars and–

The other stranger was still watching. Javert clenched his jaw when he turned his head and still saw him stare. He had his trousers open, his dick in his hand. The guy who'd just fucked him – Tom, John, Jim, something like that, Javert thought vaguely, aching already with the yearning to leave the bar, step into his car and forget the name – pulled out of him with another satisfied sound, and then gave his bared ass a slap. Javert hated the instinctive heat that rolled through him. At the sound of the filthy condom tossed into a corner, he straightened with a grimace.

“Nice,” the guy said. “All yours now.”

Javert swallowed, anger and loathing rising up at the same time as something in him clenched. He thought of the bars again. Bending forward to grasp them. One man at work behind him with grunts while another – short, broad shoulders, dark, sullen eyes – watched, waited, and–

Javert tore himself violently away.

Tom – John? – was gone. God, and he was still standing here, his trousers at his knees while his come dripped down the wall.

God.

The other guy tilted his head at him, still stroking himself, nice and easy, and Javert hated himself for that too – how for a moment, his eyes lingered, and that thought returned with the insidious heat. How he could allow himself to be pushed against the wall again, close his eyes and pretend. Concentrate on the ache. The bruising grip of fingers. Disdain in those sullen eyes...

Furiously, he pulled up his trousers, fumbling with his belt for a moment. The other was _still_ stroking himself. Fuck. Don't look at his hands, Javert, he told himself, trying to ignore the dusting of dark hair and the broad knuckles and the roughness that came from hard, physical work.

He could almost taste that touch on his skin, the roughness of callouses as he was gripped and held. He swallowed against the sickening desire, holding his back straight as he strode out of the stall, anger blazing – and then extinguished as easily as the guy tilting his head at him. His hair was cropped short and Javert thought he saw the line of a tattoo there at his neck, like ropes of ink someone had carelessly spilled, old and half faded. He couldn't breath with how much his stomach twisted and clenched in furious, angry need. He forced himself to take a step, and then another, head held high, past the guy who kept rubbing himself unabashedly and laughed when Javert walked past him.

“Next time then. You know you want it,” he said, and Javert didn't bother to deign that with a reply, still feeling sickened and weak.

It used to be enough. This. It always used to be enough: Come home from work tired and restless. On the nights when his hand didn't suffice, driving to where no one knew him, where everyone was a stranger and no one wanted to be recognized. It was what he needed, and he gave his body what it wanted, and there was nothing more to it. Everyone did it, he told himself. There was nothing illegal to it these days. Not even anything truly immoral. 

He preferred to be alone. He had his job. He had his life. It was well ordered. It was a good life; claiming anything else would have been ungrateful. And Javert wasn't ungrateful. Javert worked hard for what he had, and it was enough.

And on the nights when it wasn't, getting a stranger to fuck him – well, it was less messy than the constant noisy break-ups of his neighbors.

It was good enough. It worked for him.

But now he walked past a stranger who had just watched him get fucked. He should feel angry, or humiliated – instead, something in Javert still wanted to feel a rough hand grab him and push him to his knees, pull at his hair until he opened his mouth.

He took care to avoid the eyes of the guy behind the bar when he left. The recognition paired with that pitying smile still made his stomach twist. God, he should look for a different place. Folks recognizing him meant this wasn't exactly safe.

One day you'll wrestle someone to the floor and put handcuffs on him, he told himself, and then you'll pull him around, and you'll recognize him, and he'll laugh into your face and taunt you with how he fucked you in a bar and they'll all look at you and _know_ , and you'll deserve it. 

It was still hot enough outside that the short walk to his car made his shirt stick to his back, and he rolled his shoulders with discomfort when he finally closed the door of his car, still aching vaguely for the familiar weight of leather. He turned on the radio, switched to a station with music running, didn't even listen but just turned it louder, louder, until it drowned out all the thoughts in his head. Then he took a deep breath and stared at his hands clutching the steering wheel and told himself that it was alright. 

It didn't matter. People had sex. Maybe he couldn't ever tell anyone of the particulars, but at the heart of it was just the simple fact that it was sex, and that everyone did it, and there was nothing more to it. It didn't mean anything.

And this time he wasn't going to come back.


End file.
